


really strange dreams

by rayofsinshine (spookyloki)



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Multi, i just got the idea while i was walking home i guess, probably a lot of gore, sighs, what is this? i dont know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:23:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7381657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyloki/pseuds/rayofsinshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the way he cracks you open, you kinda like it.  you're not sure who he is, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There it was, the feel of the dream, the dropping, the unawakeness, the forgetting that this wasn’t real. It felt real; they saw it with their own eyes? How could something in front of them not exist?

AH, he said, and they didn’t know how they knew him but he was brilliant, a light in the darkness, and they were a moth. Drawn to him, drawn like a fish to a worm on a hook. They were compelled, not exactly forced, but they wanted to, dearly, dearly, follow him. So they did. No one stopped them. 

YOU’VE BEEN HEALTHY, he said, saying the words without a mouth; it was strange, watching him ‘speak.’ Their eyes couldn’t keep still while trying to look at him, it was a blank, white space one moment, and then a midnight-vortex the next. And then it was a mass of black and white and gray, with echoes of red. They wanted to blink, to keep an image in their eyes, to lock his face in place, but their eyes were wide open. Pinned open.

Suddenly, they were on the ground, a floor, a cold, grimy surface. Maybe it was a table, one that doctors used for surgery or something. They should know, but they didn’t, because all that mattered was that he was standing over them, not wickedly but with benevolent intent, seemingly contrary to the wicked-sharp scalpel in his hand. 

AH, he said again, a sound familiar to their ears. OOPS. He looked at his left hand (of course It was his left hand, it always had been) that was holding the silver instrument, a thing of cutting and slicing. DON’T NEED THIS AT ALL. He tossed it away, and took off his--? What were they? Gloves? Skin-colored gloves because his hands weren’t normal at all, suddenly, they were black as oil, rough as a voice without air--

Hands, marked with black greasepaint, glided across their skin, burning miles of pain. His eyes were remorseful, a garden of sorry. THIS IS YOU, THIS IS ME. 

His hand, his right hand rested on their face, just under their chin, light fingers gentle as moth’s wings. THIS IS US. 

And with a movement their eyes couldn’t catch, the left hand, also dark with paint reached up to their hairline, digging in his nails into their scalp and peeling off the layers, the layers of skin and personalities  
the right hand shrieked, plunging up and into their mouth, yanking down their jaw, blood like a waterfall down their chin hanging by a thread of bloody flesh

he tore at their face, screaming anything but words, while they were silent as he ripped them apart:

he clawed at their face, leaving a gaping hole in their left cheek, he pushed out teeth like he was ruining a chain of dominoes, he scraped at their eyes, blood pooling and spilling and streaming down, mixing his black greasepaint with an impossible red—

And then they were awake. 

A gasp, an ascension, a remembering, a distinction—between the real and unreal and surreal. Eyes weren’t open, and they panicked, thinking that this time their eyes were pinned closed instead of like they were in the dream, but they weren’t—some desperate scrabbling at sleep sand and their eyes were dry as the Sahara but fully open. They knew that they should be reacting in some horrible way to a horrible dream, but they couldn’t. Any other normal being would be screaming, sobbing, something like that. Heck, they wouldn’t even be real, they’d be in a horror novel with dreams like that. See how messed up they were? Not nightmares, but ordinary dreams, they called them. They weren’t disturbed at all by what they could mean, or whatever, they were just dreams. 

They winced, stretched, and got ready for the day. Took a shower, sighed at their extremely red eyes in the mirror, and went out, of course missing the black handprint that appeared on their pillowcase. The longer that they were gone from the room, the stronger and darker the handprint became. 

And then they came home, and as soon as they opened their door, the sheets were completely white, white as society’s standards of beauty, white as snow, white as the tip of a fresh flame.


	2. Chapter 2

Tyler was no one, Tyler was tired, Tyler was not who he thought he was. He moved like a dream, spoke like an angel, kissed like a sinner. He tried to be unseen through the halls, but he was a fish swimming the wrong way. He was a sore thumb on the hand of high school. 

Today was uneventful as you watched him, as you usually did. He had dark circles under his eyes, and the corners of his mouth were turned down. You wondered what had happened to him, if anything had. He wasn’t the type to “have a night out,” so maybe he hadn’t slept well, and that was all. 

And then, he saw you, and time stood still. You could swear his eyes flashed bloodred for a split second, before the violent color disappeared and it was just him and you, eyes locked. 

You turned away, feeling heat creep up your neck, red like his eyes, like your hair, crawl into your face. What was that about? You didn’t know, you weren’t sure if you wanted to. 

Your heart couldn’t stop fluttering for the rest of the day, a caged hummingbird in your throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how often i'll upd8 but whatever

**Author's Note:**

> ??????????????????????????????????????????????????? where is this going no one knows not even me
> 
> (pls comment this is my first thing ive ever posted here and i need Validation)


End file.
